


Hannstiel Drabble

by dreamofflight



Category: My Bloody Valentine (2009), Supernatural
Genre: Gore, Psychopath, Sociopath, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofflight/pseuds/dreamofflight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is fucked up. No arguments here that it isn't.<br/>Because it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hannstiel Drabble

Trigger Warning: Death/Gore

Castiel appeared like he always did, in the space of a blink, one second Tom was alone in the alley, and in the next a figure in a tan overcoat stood next to him. Together they looked down at Tom’s latest piece of art together. Castiel assumed that the mangled form had once been human, but from the way Tom had spread the flesh out, had carved into the body, it was just an educated guess.

“Do you like it?” Tom asked, breaking into Castiel’s train of thought with his velvet voice.

“Do I like it?” parroted Castiel, eyebrows drawn together as he turned to look at Tom. Tom smiled his smile, more a grin, that never really reached his eyes.

“Yes…do you like it…I made this one just for you.” he seemed pleased with his handiwork, turning back to watch the steam rise from the flesh. It was early in Winter, but cold enough that their breath could be seen on the air now and then, and the strips of flesh gave off steam. Almost like fresh baked goods, thought Castiel. Pie was Dean’s favorite.

“Well?” said Tom, and Castiel frowned again, uncertain how to answer the question.

“I thought you would….” Dean had been training Castiel in recognizing human emotions and tones of voice…and he could swear that was ‘gloating’.

Castiel turned away from Tom to look at the body again. From the way the body was cut up, Tom seemed to have moved away from his favorite tool, the pick axe. He clutched a knife in one hand, most likely a carving knife from the curve of the blade. It was still dripping with gore from his work, and Tom’s fingers tapped out a nervous tattoo on the hilt.

The work was…beautiful, in it’s way. If Castiel pushed aside the voice in his head, the one that Dean had instilled there from the moment Castiel raised him from perdition, he could see the beauty in Tom’s work. There was a strange symmetry there, the broken ribs spread open like butterfly wings, the thigh muscles flayed away from the body to reveal pink tinged femur, even the almost blasphemous pose that Tom had put the body in, crucified on the alley floor.

It was all beautiful.

Castiel gave Tom a minute nod and Tom let out a soft laugh, twirled the knife in his hand, a thin spray of blood flew out across Castiel’s overcoat. He looked down at it with a frown, then back up at Tom, who had the strange decency to look sheepish for a moment before leaning close to him and sighing.

“The high doesn’t last as long these days angel.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed at Tom, who only blinked back at him.

“….What are you Tom?” He had asked the question before, almost every time they met in fact. The answer was always the same.

“I’m human, angel…and I think that scares you most of all.” Tom said with a smirk, mirth in his tone as he turned away from his work, and Castiel.

Castiel had seen many kinds of people throughout history. Rulers and dictators, people who called for mass genocide and turned their backs on their people as they starved to death, or died by the hundreds of thousands from plagues.

The angel had observed it all from on high, perched above and watching the world as it ticked by, passing millenia with a sigh.

It wasn’t until he met Dean Winchester, marked his soul and pulled him from hell, that he began to take an interest in human beings on a personal level. Each one was different from the last, like snowflakes, or so the saying went. Dean always made fun of Castiel for not knowing mundane colloquialisms. While Dean, the one true vessel of Michael the archangel, had a soul that shone like pure gold, brilliant even to Castiel’s vessel’s naked eye – Tom didn’t. Tom was blackness, through and through. There was nothing redeeming there, no goodness that Castiel could find. And he had looked. The first time he encountered Tom, caught him literally red handed, Castiel had searched the man’s soul for any sign that he was like Dean.

Tom wasn’t…isn’t…would never be Dean.

Which was why Castiel could not understand his fascination with the man.

Dean was loyal and true, pure hearted and fierce.

Tom was….darkness.

Castiel wondered if it was just morbid curiousity that kept him from smiting the man from the Earth, stopped him from killing innocent people almost daily.

If Dean knew…

But Dean didn’t know. He didn’t care where Castiel went when Castiel was gone.

He only cared that Castiel was there when he wanted him to be.

Castiel looked over his shoulder at Tom, who was walking away with a spring in his step. He blinked then looked down at the body on the ground, the art work that Tom had made from living flesh and bone, blood and intestines.

How could one of his Father’s most beloved creations do the things that Tom Hanniger did…and feel the things he did? There was no remorse, no sadness or anger in the things he did. There was also no numbness, like Castiel had observed time and time again with executioners throughout history.

No…with Tom, there was a glee to it. It was in the thrill in the chase, the hunt ; it was in the way he took his prey down, carefully, with the skill of an artisan. Tom Hanniger wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t a demon or a vampire, wendigo or skin walker.

Tom was human.

And he was right.

That was what scared Castiel most of all.

It was also what kept him coming back, time and time again, to observe.

He needed to know how there could be men like Dean, and then men like Tom in this world.

“…..Are you coming?”

Tom had paused at the mouth of the alley, the knife still gripped loosely in one hand, the other holding a souvenir, the still warm heart of the woman who had once been a Miriam, a daughter, a sister, a tax accountant.

She was now a piece of art on the floor of an alley, split open and ruby red, splashes of liquid life that drained away down the street, reflecting the colors of the neon street signs just a hundred yards away, where life bustled past.

Castiel looked up, broken from his trance by Tom’s words. He swallowed hard and then nodded.

“Yes Tom.” he croaked, and then followed.


End file.
